


Every Stroke Anew

by Allekha



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, Hand Jobs, Loneliness, M/M, Self-cest, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-06-07 14:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allekha/pseuds/Allekha
Summary: When Victor finds himself suddenly stranded almost a decade in the past, the obvious thing to do is to take up coaching his younger self - a Victor who is still bright and happy - and see how things change.





	Every Stroke Anew

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neuroglam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/gifts).



It happened between one moment and the next – Victor blinked, and suddenly the world around him had changed. Instead of his living room, quiet in the light of dawn, a cup of tea warm in his hands as he finished downing it before stepping out, he was standing on a street, busy and bright and with no tea in his hands at all.

Victor blinked. He blinked again. Dizzy, he stepped to the side of the sidewalk and shook his head, eyes closed. When he re-opened them, nothing had changed – he was still on the street, not at home.

What?

Deeply confused – and suddenly worrying that there was something wrong with him, like some kind of amnesia – he pulled out his phone and went straight to Maps. Only there was something wrong with the connection. When it failed to load after a few minutes, Victor was forced to solve the problem the old-fashioned way. He wandered down the busiest-looking streets he could find, looking for some kind of familiar street or sight, or at least a building with the name of where he was on it.

He was startled, after a few minutes, to find himself on a street he knew, but not one that was in St. Petersburg. There was a distinctive statue of a tired old man sitting on one of the benches on the street. He remembered it from a family vacation, one of the last they'd taken, when he was maybe thirteen. His parents had taken a photo of him imitating the statue's posture, and then they'd had him take one of them pretending to collapse in similar ways on the bench. It had been fun. He'd forgotten about that moment.

But more importantly: he was in a completely different city, a couple hours away from where he should have been. How on Earth had he gone all that without without noticing? Victor went and sat down on the bench, trying to figure out why he might have even come here. He couldn't think of a reason.

And when he turned his phone back on, he noticed something else that was wrong, too, and this on was even less explainable. It was one thing for it to suddenly be later in the day, if he'd had an amnesiac episode. But currently, it was August. Only now his phone said it was early May. No wonder the temperature felt wrong, now that he thought about it. He couldn't have possibly lost most of a year, though, could he? Did he need to visit the hospital and get his head checked? Could he have hit his head on the ice during practice? But this didn't feel like a concussion – nothing hurt, and there wasn't anything off about his thinking processes, as far as he could tell.

At a loss, he called Yakov. Yakov always seemed to know what to do.

He had to ring twice for it to go through – that made sense if Yakov was at the rink. As soon as he heard him come on the line, he took a deep breath to launch into an explanation of what the problem was, only for Yakov to cut him off before he got a word out.

"Who the hell is this?"

"What? Yakov, it's me."

"Don't joke around! Victor Nikiforov is on the ice in front of me! I don't know how you faked his number, but I don't want to hear from you again." And with that, he hung up.

Even more deeply confused (and not a little hurt to have Yakov mistaking him for a stranger), Victor tried to call back. What did he mean, Victor was on the ice in front of him? He was right here. If anything, Yakov should have been yelling because he was worried sick after Victor failed to show up for practice.

After dialing several more times, it was clear that Yakov had no interest in picking up. Victor frowned and switched to texting, instead. He could prove that he was himself.

First, he took a selfie. He sent it, with _Remember when I was twelve and I freaked out at that local competition because I'd spilled water all over myself and my costume? You were scolding me and trying to calm me down and patting me dry all at the same time. I got first place anyway over people older than me, and I was so happy that I almost pulled you over in the hallway afterward._

There. That was an anecdote he couldn't ever remember sharing with the press or on social media. He had plenty more where that came from if need be.

It took a long time for Yakov's reply to come. Victor paced for a few minutes, then sat down again to fidget on the bench instead. It was difficult to be patient when he was so confused, and worried about Makkachin and whether she had anyone to take care of her or not.

Finally, Yakov called him back. At first, there was only silence on the line from his end, a quiet noise like he'd opened his mouth only to cut off whatever he was about to say. Finally, there came a, "Vitya?"

"Yes, it's me. Why would you think otherwise?"

Yakov said, "Let me send you a picture."

When Victor opened the small, low-quality photo, he understood Yakov's confusion right away. Because it was of him, practicing, on the ice – only not him, because his hair was long. Him, but as he'd been when he was younger.

Victor quickly checked the date on his phone and was stunned to see the year listed as 2006 instead of 2015. He'd traveled back in time? Almost a decade? No way. What?

"Have you seen the news?" Yakov asked. "It's not just you."

"What?"

"A whole bunch of people, apparently. Where are you?"

Victor told him; Yakov promised to come and pick him up, since he was otherwise stuck there. He never carried cash, except sometimes when traveling to other countries, and none of his cards would be the same as they had been back – now. Apparently. So he couldn't even borrow from his younger self.

While he waited, Victor tried to read up on what had happened, navigating through news websites that suddenly looked out of date, none of which had mobile versions. It really hadn't just been him; Nigerian office workers were walking into embassies in Montreal, and a gaggle of Japanese schoolkids had been found unaccompanied in Paris, and an airline had already offered to fly a woman who lived in New York back home from San Francisco for free. At least Victor had ended up relatively close to where he'd started out this morning.

Time travel. It was an exciting idea, even if nobody had any idea why it that happened. From the few articles that had any coherent information, it sounded like they'd all come from the same time. Other than that, it seemed too early for the news to say anything.

There were pleas for the time travelers to contact a whole bunch of interested scientists. Maybe later. Victor wanted to get his feet under himself first. Let the information sink in, because it still felt unreal. Time travel! Of all things that could have happened! And of course he had to meet his younger self first – to think he'd get to meet himself! A strange idea, but it sounded fun.

He switched back to the picture Yakov had sent. This Victor was pouting off into space, a hand propped on one hip. Something had been going wrong, and he hadn't been able to fix it. It was a cute photo.

That only left Makkachin. But if time was still passing in the time he'd come from – was that how it worked? – then hopefully someone would come over to check that he was okay when he didn't show up or answer his phone. Yakov had a spare key. Someone would find her. He didn't like the thought of her waiting there for him, but she wouldn't starve.

He hoped she didn't miss him too much.

When Yakov finally arrived, he took one look at Victor and shook his head. Victor went in for a hug, and Yakov let him. "Two Vityas," sighed Yakov. "What am I supposed to do with you? Do you still skate?"

"Of course I do," said Victor. It was what he did. He skated, and he was going to skate until he couldn't. And after that he'd... do something. Only, now— "I don't think ISU will let me here, if we all stick around, but—"

"We'll find something for you to do," said Yakov. "Come on, let's get home."

Victor was a bit disappointed to see that nobody else was in the car with him. "You didn't bring younger me?"

"He had an off-ice conditioning class and I wasn't about to let him skip it to meet you a couple hours earlier." He looked at Victor as he buckled himself in. "I haven't told him yet, since you like your surprises."

Victor laughed. "I think this might be the strangest one you've ever had for me."

They talked for a little while on the way back – Yakov, of course, wanted to know about the future. About the Victor who was twenty-six instead of seventeen. That had to be a shock for him, Victor realized after the fifth time Yakov glanced at him, back to the road, and back to him. Especially with the haircut. Victor answered his questions and told him things that the younger Victor probably wouldn't care about hearing.

Yakov took him right to the rink and lead him to his office, before leaving him for a minute to go find the younger him. Victor looked around – this room hadn't changed much in the past decade. The files were a little different. Yakov had upgraded to a proper LCD monitor for his work computer, but now he – in the future he had a larger one that was set further to the side.

Behind Victor, the door banged open again. "Hi," said Victor, smiling automatically and giving a wave to the younger Victor, who stood in the doorway, gaping.

The younger Victor slowly put his hands to his cheeks. "Hi," he breathed. Yakov pushed him gently from behind to make him move in. "Oh my _god_ you're old and you cut your hair and you're _me_!" And with that he bounded over to stare from closer up.

This was probably more fascinating from the other side; Victor knew what he'd been like when he was younger, but this Victor was seeing something totally new. Still, he'd never seen himself outside of a mirror and off a screen. It was so much more real like this, watching the younger Victor move while he stayed still, being able to make out every pale eyelash in every blink when the younger Victor leaned in for a better look.

And then the younger Victor put a hand on his cheek, just the fingertips, and that was strange, the touch. Both of them shivered at the contact. Victor couldn't resist returning it, brushing loose hairs from the younger Victor's face and smoothing them back.

"How old are you? Do you know how you got here? Are you staying? You still skate, right, I'm not retired? I – you're not retired, I mean – this is weird. What are we going to call ourselves? We can't both be Victor, can we?"

"Victor one and Victor two? Old Victor and young Victor? Victor and Victor prime – stop making that face, I'm serious." So Victor said, but he couldn't stop a smile at the exaggerated frown the younger Victor had put on. "We'll figure something out."

Yakov, standing by the wall, shook his head as the younger Victor went back to bombarding him with questions. There were a lot, but Victor didn't mind answering them; the younger Victor was cute, and it was still interesting just to look at him and compare how they looked. The younger Victor's frame was a bit smaller, still, he had a little growing left to do, especially in the shoulders. And he was so excited. So _happy_ , his eyes practically sparkling.

Victor wondered when was the last time he might have looked like that. The first year he'd won everything, maybe. Perhaps even the second. By the third, he'd started getting bored of the constant gold, and after the fourth, the prospect of another year of competition and competition and competition, probably gold at all of them – and another year after that, most likely, and another, and maybe he could retire with another Olympic gold and _then_ what—

"I want to see you skate!" the younger Victor said, practically bouncing. "Yakov, can we?"

Yakov checked his watch. "We should have the time on the ice, if you don't dawdle getting your skates on and warming up."

"I don't have any skates," said Victor.

"Can't you borrow mine?" suggested the younger Victor.

It turned out he could. His feet had changed slightly since he was seventeen, and the fit wasn't as perfect as he was used to, but he could wear them for one session.

"Did you want to see a program I was working on for next season, or one from last season?" he asked the younger Victor after he'd warmed up. Even after competitions had become a thing he did rather than a thing he looked forward to, it always felt good to get back on the ice, and now he felt ready to show off. He couldn't wait to see the younger Victor's face afterward – Yakov's, too. He'd always wanted to be the first to land the quad flip, the first to land three and then four quads in a program, and to do all that without tossing artistry to the side.

"Anything's fine," the younger Victor said. He was leaning so far over the boards in his eagerness that Yakov had to pull him back by the hood of his jacket.

He decided on the long program for his next season. He probably wasn't going to perform it for the judges, if he didn't end up back in his own time, so he might as well take the opportunity to show it off now.

It took a bit of scrambling to get the music on the younger Victor's iPod so they could all listen to it – technology had changed more than he'd remembered in the past decade. Then Victor skated out, started _Stammi Vicino_ , stuck his phone in a secure pocket, and took his opening pose.

There had been a lot of difficulty in coming up with his programs for this season. He'd wanted to do something new, of course, but there was a lot he'd already done. When he'd hit upon the idea of an operatic aria for his free program, he'd written the lyrics – French, not the later Italian – in a few minutes. Coming back to edit them a few days later before he sent them to a translator, they'd been a bit odd to read. Too much of the strange feelings he was having despite all of his success put in them. He'd wondered if anyone would notice.

The opening choreography flowed without a thought. Quad lutz – perfect. He glided out of it with no problem into a turn, and then he set up his famous quad flip.

When he landed it, smooth as silk, the gasp the younger Victor made was audible over the music and halfway across the rink. Victor had to fight not to let it distract him from the rest of the program. He went from a triple axel (slightly wobbly, damn – it never had been his best jump) into a spin, and he lost himself in the music and the familiarity of the movements.

After he'd finished, taken a few breaths, and wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve, he looked over. The younger Victor was doing that adorable gaping with his hands on his cheeks again. Yakov looked absolutely stunned. It'd been a long time since Victor had seen him wear that expression, and it brought a grin to his own face. He'd always loved surprising Yakov just as much as the audience, showing him again and again that he could surpass his own limits.

"What do you think?" he asked, skating over to the boards. He half-expected Yakov to come up with some criticism – maybe a remark on how he'd let the one spin travel a little too much, or a critique of that one moment where he hadn't quite figured out how to make the choreography perfect. But Yakov just shook his head and put a hand to his face.

The younger Victor, on the other hand, almost leaped over the boards. "That was _amazing_! Wow, to think – and you're so _old_ and – I want to skate like that, oh my god, can you teach me? I want to do the quad flip! Yakov, you'll let him teach me, right, right? Please?"

"Vitya," Yakov started to say.

Then the younger Victor got a little too enthusiastic about leaning forward on the boards and jumping, and his hands started to slip from underneath him. Both Yakov and Victor grabbed for him; he grabbed Victor back, hands fisted in his jacket on either shoulder.

"If you can't compete this season, can you coach me? Not—" He turned to Yakov. "Not instead of you! But, like, as a second coach? Can I? Can we?"

"Wow," said Victor, because _ooh_ , there was an idea. He'd always thought he might go into coaching after he retired. If he couldn't skate, it would be fun to try. And the younger Victor might be more amenable to it than Yuri, who liked to brush him off unless Yakov told him the same thing a minute later.

"Being coached by yourself?" Yakov rubbed his forehead. "This whole situation is ridiculous. Do you have any experience with teaching?"

"I've—" Both he and the younger Victor started to say it at once, and they broke off to look at each other before they started laughing at the same time, too.

When he got it under control, Victor said, "I've helped you at summer camps before. And I've had you teaching me for forever, so I have a good role model! How hard can it be?" He grinned when Yakov sighed. "You can yell at me about that instead of yelling at me about my skating. Maybe if I do a good enough job, I can help out with the others, too? I can do choreography, at least."

"Let's start you off with him before we get any wild ideas," Yakov grumbled, but he had a calculating look in his eyes. Yakov always did what he could to help his students; he would know that Victor's foreknowledge, never mind his record-setting skating abilities, could be helpful. Like maybe, when Mila showed up, if he could help her get more seriously into weightlifting sooner so she could start training her triple axel earlier. Or with Georgi, he'd started doing so much better the first year he'd really pushed himself artistically and chosen dramatic, expressive music.

The younger Victor looked crestfallen. "But," he said, turning between Yakov and Victor. "But he's _my_ older self."

"Don't be selfish, Vitya," said Yakov. "Anyway, I just said you can try training with him before I let anyone else at him, didn't I?"

The younger Victor huffed. "Okay," he said, whining. Victor, who still had his hands on his shoulders, pulled him into a hug, and felt the tension melt. "Okay, okay, I'll be your guinea pig. I do want to be the first to land the quad flip."

"You will be," Victor promised. "You already were going to be."

"This is going to be _amazing_. Can I see it again?" the younger Victor asked. When Victor came back over after a couple more demonstrations, his eyes were sparkling. Victor could practically see the dreams in them.

Victor wondered if he could help keep him like that. Happy, looking forward to training something new and setting records and winning gold.

~!~

With no apartment to return to, Victor moved in with the younger Victor. He had a nice apartment for his own – there were perks to being the handsome teenage gold medalist at the Olympics. While it wasn't quite as nice as the one Victor had left behind, it had more than enough room for the two of them and Makkachin. There was only one bed, but the couch was comfortable, especially the first night that Makkachin had come to sleep with him instead of the younger Victor.

Yakov helped him work out the boring administrative stuff, and there were more than a couple of interviews once reporters had figured out that a future version of one of their top figure skaters had arrived in the present. Victor was mum about results, and he hadn't told the younger Victor, either. He did enjoy spouting off all his achievements for Yakov, though, and watching his face as Victor described his Olympic medals, his GPF golds, his Worlds titles, his records....

He'd looked less impressed when Victor had also rattled off all the injuries he could remember. Not that any of his achievements or setbacks were guaranteed for the younger Victor, as far as Victor could tell – they'd happened in a world where there had been no time-travelers, and now they were in one that was full of them. But maybe the younger Victor wouldn't need surgery fresh off his second Olympic medal, or need Yakov to carry him off the ice at one horrible practice session because he was crying from pain.

The younger Victor paid for new skates, but while they waited for those to be made and arrive, Victor got to try coaching him from the side of the rink. It was interesting just to watch his older skating – he hadn't seen video of him skating as a teen in ages, and now he had a live demonstrations.

There were lots of places where he needed to improve. His jump techniques were fine, for the most part – Yakov wouldn't have let him get away with anything less by seventeen – but there were places where they could still use work. He wasn't quite as strong as Victor was now, either, or as fast across the ice.

But he was pretty. More flexible than Victor, still able to manage the Biellmanns that Lilia loved so much. And he always looked like he was having fun. When he fell out of a triple lutz at one point and went skidding across the ice, he rolled over, laughing, and stuck out his tongue when Victor cheerfully informed him that he'd taken it off from the wrong edge.

"I thought I'd fixed that by this point," Victor told him, offering a hand the younger Victor didn't need from the boards. The younger Victor got himself up halfway and took it, brushing the snow off as he stood. "You must be feeling tired."

The younger Victor shrugged. "We still haven't had our lesson yet," he said. "I can go for a while longer."

"Okay," said Victor. He'd always had a problem with stopping. Even the last time he'd had practice in his time, Yakov had to come over to tell him that enough was enough when he'd gotten so lost in perfecting his choreo sequence that he hadn't noticed how late it was. This Yakov had told him not to let the younger Victor get away with too much of that.

Yakov had told him off for a lot, actually. There was apparently an art to the right way to yell at people, to tell them their mistakes and helped them fix them, to leave them feeling like they were improving instead of discouraged at how far there was to go. Yakov had shoved readings at him, too.

Victor didn't mind. Coaching was fun. Being with his younger self was fun. And now that he wasn't competing – probably – and especially while he was still waiting on his skates, he had a lot more free time than he was used to. He went for jogs with the younger Victor and Makkachin in the mornings, but for most of the day, he didn't have much to do while the younger Victor was in class or at practice with Yakov or doing off-ice training.

Days off had always been boring, when he couldn't fill them with some kind of PR thing. Even he could only fuss over Makkachin, playing with her and grooming her lovely fur, for so many hours a day before she wriggled away for a nap.

So Victor went through the readings and went through the younger Victor's bookcases. When he found a cookbook he couldn't remember owning, he started going through the recipes that sounded best. Not all of them were suitable for his diet plan, but _he didn't have a diet plan anymore_. If he wanted a pastry in a shop window, he could go in and buy the pastry. If he wanted to have something decadent for lunch, before he and the younger Victor shared a boring dinner, he could make it. Everything in moderation, but not quite so much moderation as before. It was heaven.

The younger Victor started getting jealous when Victor would show him photos of what he'd had for lunch. "I want to try it," he whined one night, stabbing at his perfectly healthy dinner. "What's in it? It looks delicious."

"Maybe I'll save you a few bites next time," said Victor, taking the camera back to set aside. (He would've used his phone, but it turned out smart phones and modern phone chargers hadn't been invented quite yet. He'd forgotten how new they were. He was saving the battery for when he figured out how to transfer all his photos off of it.)

After dinner, the younger Victor worked on homework for a while – Victor did not miss studying – before the two of them both settled down on the couch to watch something together. It was nice to have the company, tonight and every day. Yakov was getting used to him, to a Victor who was a real adult instead of a teenager, but Victor still hadn't spent much time out of the rink with him. He had hardly spoken to Lilia at all – it had been years since she was around. Georgi was now almost a decade younger than him, Chris was even younger and hadn't even met the younger Victor yet, Yuri and Mila were too small to be at their rink for a few years, and Victor had no desire to see his parents. He was starting to make friends with the rink staff and the other coaches there, at least.

Victor eventually got bored with the movie the younger Victor had on and picked up the nearest book to flip through it. It was one that he'd read before, so he went straight for his favorite sections. The next time he looked up from the pages, the younger Victor was fast asleep on the other arm of the couch.

He closed the book and stood, trying not to make any noise. Makkachin, lying on the floor, looked like she was asleep, too, but she stood to follow him around as he turned off the TV and some of the lights. What to do with the younger Victor, though? Leave him and take his bed in exchange? Wake up him? That seemed like a shame. He was cute like this, his hair falling across his face, arms tucked into his chest.

And with his head at that angle, he was going to wake up with a crick in his neck. Victor shook his head and looked down at Makkachin. "Let's take the sleeping beauty to his bed," he whispered to her, and she made the softest little noise. Good dog. He scratched her head, then bent to pick up the younger Victor.

He was heavier than he looked. Victor suddenly had a lot more respect for Yakov being able to haul him off the ice, although at least Victor had been awake then. The younger Victor's eyes fluttered as Victor straightened, slow so he didn't lose his balance. "Mm... what...?"

"Shh," said Victor, but the younger Victor only woke up more, squinting and looping his arms around Victor's neck. Well, that did help for carrying him.

"What're you doing?" he mumbled. "I can walk."

"I was hoping you'd stay asleep so I could stare at you and contemplate where my youth went," Victor joked as he started down the hall.

"Can do that when I'm awake, too." He yawned. "I bet you lost it all when you cut your hair."

Victor snorted. He nudged the door to the bedroom open with his foot and entered, then set the younger Victor down. "There you go, Rapunzel."

The younger Victor smiled and stretched out, pointing his toes. His t-shirt rode up, showing off pale skin. He didn't bother to pull it down again. "If you cut your hair, maybe I should grow mine even longer," he said. "Like, down to my knees if it'd get that long. Nobody would ever mix us up."

"You definitely would have to pin it back if you did that." It'd been annoying enough as long as it was now; pretty, but whipping into his face whenever he skated if he didn't listen to Yakov and Lilia and braid it down or something. He'd liked the way it looked, but the short hair didn't take so much thought, and it suited him just as well. When the younger Victor yawned again, Victor swallowed another joke and bent to kiss his forehead. "Good night."

"Night," the younger Victor mumbled. He grabbed Victor's arm as he started to leave. "Is the couch okay?"

"It's fine. Maybe I'll steal Makkachin again tonight. That makes it even better."

"Noooo. _My_ dog."

"Makkachin's my dog, too," Victor said, amused at the expression the younger Victor made when Makkachin did, in fact, start to follow him to the door.

The younger Victor sat up. "Come here," he said, making grabby motions with his hands, stifling another yawn. When Victor came back over, he was thinking of encouraging Makkachin to stay after all (the younger Victor's sleepy pouting was just so cute), but to his surprise, the younger Victor shuffled over on the blankets. "Now she can stay with both of us," he said. He collapsed back to the bed, and Makkachin hopped on up.

Victor smiled as the younger Victor snuggled instantly into Makkachin's side. "Okay, okay," he said, laying down. It was a tight squeeze – the bed was not made for two adults and a large dog – and he really meant to get up after a couple of minutes and return to the couch. Only, Makkachin's fur was so soft and warm, and the movement of her breathing so relaxing, that he ended up falling asleep after all.

In the morning, there was no Makkachin when he opened his eyes. Just the younger Victor, fast asleep. Victor propped his head up on an elbow and watched him for a few minutes. Happy younger him. Probably dreaming of skating. Most of Victor's dreams had been for the past decade.

Victor brushed a stray hair from the younger Victor's cheekbone. How had he done it? What was different back then, besides the fact that he wasn't quite so far ahead of all of his competition? Was there a way to keep him from getting bored of winning again, and again, and again, too? Maybe if he recruited Chris – though Chris liked his coach almost as much as Victor liked Yakov – or could help Georgi do better. Not that he wanted the younger Victor to lose, but – maybe if those golds felt more worth it, hard-won, he'd be more satisfied. Keep smiling after every competition like Victor had, once. Victor wanted to see it.

He rolled off the bed and made breakfast, trying to keep quiet, to let the younger Victor sleep in a while longer. When he really did need to get up, Victor brought tea to help tempt him out of bed. "Good morning," he said in his cheeriest voice, running his hand down the younger Victor's hair.

The younger Victor looked disgruntled at being forced to face the day, but the expression eased with the cup of tea, and by the time they finished their morning run, he was back to his normal bright self.

That night, Victor slept on the couch again. Makkachin chose him to sleep with. He woke up halfway through the night to the younger Victor standing over them, arms crossed. "Makkachin, you _traitor_ ," the younger Victor whispered. "The couch isn't even _that_ comfortable when she could be on my bed."

But she'd chosen him, and Victor couldn't _possibly_ disturb her sleep, so he simply smiled at the younger Victor over her head. Then he dropped it when the younger Victor almost sat on his knees. "What are you doing?" he asked.

The younger Victor put his head on Victor's waist. It didn't look comfortable at all; Victor could feel that he had one arm, the one not unfolding across Makkachin, jammed near his hip, and his legs had to fit in the space left around and below Victor's. "My dog," he sighed.

Victor decided that he deserved the crick in his back this time.

Makkachin hopped off to drink some water shortly after Victor woke and started stroking her, a few hours after dawn. The younger Victor didn't wake even when her leaving shifted him from his awkward position. He only murmured nonsense and settled back down on Victor's chest. Victor started stroking his his hair and his back instead, listening to the sound of Makkachin lapping water, her nails clicking on the kitchen floor.

The younger Victor eventually opened his eyes. He propped himself up, blinked at Victor, then collapsed down again. "My back hurts," he whined. "And my arms, too."

"That's what you get for climbing all over me," said Victor. But he gave in to some pity and nudged him. "Sit up and I'll try rubbing it out."

He didn't know anything about massage, but the younger Victor sighed nicely enough when he leaned against the back of the couch and Victor started to rub his back harder, so he assumed it helped.

They didn't talk, but it was nice to have morning company in the quiet apartment. He hadn't had that for a while – the last time had been when he'd visited Chris for a few days last summer, before they both took off for an ice show in Japan. Silent morning coffee while they enjoyed the view from Chris's kitchen, then less silent playing with Chris's energetic kitty.

"Thanks," the younger Victor eventually said, so Victor stopped. The younger Victor turned and draped his arms over Victor's shoulders in a loose hug. "I bet you're the best older self anyone has," he said. He looked up at Victor, his eyes wide and blue, and absolutely guileless.

"You're still going to practice the quad flip in a harness," Victor said. He could recognize those eyes. "Yakov's the one who gets the say-so on when you can try it by yourself."

The younger Victor drooped. "I should've known it wouldn't work on you," he groaned.

Victor laughed. "For what it's worth, I don't think anyone else has a more pretty or adorable younger self."

The younger Victor preened and struck an oh-so-casual pose, the kind that was splashed all over his social media, before he hopped up and stretched out his arms. "Oh, that really is better," he said, putting his hands to the small of his back. "Okay, what should we have to eat?"

They made breakfast together, something prettier than normal. The younger Victor took a photo of it, and of Victor sitting across from him; Victor promised to upload them for him while he was at morning practice.

When the younger Victor was gone, off to skating and school, Victor spent a while on the internet, reading and, yes, uploading the younger Victor's pictures. At some point he looked up, saw the sunlight outside, and decided that maybe it would be nice to go out for a bit and do something. He didn't know what.

"Makkachin," he called, and she perked up. "Let's go for a walk."

She knew what those words meant. She trotted over and waited patiently while he got ready to go. He felt like a tourist when he stepped outside and cast his gaze around, trying to decide which way looked more interesting. Ridiculous, since he'd lived here all his life.

But Victor liked being a tourist, so. "Let's have an adventure," he told her. She barked in reply, always happy to go where he took her.

~!~

The day that Victor's skates arrived, he could hardly put them on fast enough. It was starting to sink in that yes, maybe he really was going to retire and go into coaching instead, but he'd missed skating. It didn't feel right to stand by the side of the rink, day after day. Even Yakov got on the ice sometimes. About the only people who never did at their rink were one of the coaches, who could no longer skate safely, and Lilia, who couldn't skate.

Breaking in boots was never fun, but Victor didn't care about that as soon as he got up to speed. Yakov watched him do a few laps of back crossovers and said, "Well, at least we have someone else young and fit to lead the stroking classes if we need a substitute." There was a bit of a smile on his lips. One had to look for it, but it was there.

It was more fun to teach the younger Victor when they were both on the ice. The view was better, and so were the angles, and he could demonstrate for him when necessary. "It's different having you show me how to do it," the younger Victor laughed one day when they were working on his jumps. "I feel like a little kid in learn to skate again."

Halfway across the rink, Georgi was pausing to get water and staring at them. Victor wondered if he was jealous. It wasn't like the younger Victor was getting more instruction time than him. And Victor had given Georgi some pointers on his choreography a few days ago, so it would have a bigger impact and match his music better.

Which reminded him. "Let's do the step sequence for your short program before Lilia shows up."

The younger Victor gave him a curious look. Victor didn't plan on micromanaging the younger Victor – he had to refine his own programs by himself, with Lilia's help, and who knew, maybe he would take himself in a different direction than Victor had. But it wouldn't hurt to give him a few tips, like he had with Georgi.

"Don't let your arm drop like that when you come out of the twizzles," Victor said after the younger Victor had shown him. "It needs to be more elegant, like—" He could still remember the motion; the music played in his mind as he did the twizzles, spinning across the ice, and swept out of them with a turn, his hand drawn up behind his jaw before he pulled it into the next position. "See? Doesn't that look better?"

The younger Victor tried it. Frowned. Tried it again, going more slowly, and then started from the twizzles once more.

Lilia appeared while he was in the middle of it. Victor waved at her, and she nodded back. "Vitya," she called. "Bend your wrist more, and don't forget about the other arm. Where is it going? It doesn't simply drift there."

Victor left them to it and took some practice time for himself. Maybe he wasn't going to compete, but he couldn't let his skills degrade.

He knew there would be a time, inevitably, when he couldn't do quads and triple axels anymore. When he would no longer be the most skilled skater in the world simply because his body couldn't do it anymore – it was already protesting, pain in his knees and hips, but it was holding together so far. A few more years, he'd kept thinking, when he thought about it at all. He tried not to, because the idea was, frankly, terrifying. Even if he was going to be coaching now, he didn't want to lose the feeling of skating like this.

Victor had to turn to the side when the younger Victor came through, running through his program – ah, yes, that was his music from this season, wasn't it? He hadn't noticed. He paused to watch the younger Victor. Step sequence, twizzles and the arm thing – that was much better, it made him look coy and young and handsome. Then—

That wasn't what he'd done next. Victor couldn't remember the exact details, but he _knew_ that he hadn't come out of the last steps into a spiral before swinging around to set up for a triple lutz. If his programs were changing from Victor's already, that was interesting. He wondered if he would start to use entirely different music in the future, even without Victor telling him what songs he had chosen himself. There was an exciting thought.

After the younger Victor had finished the run-through without any other new changes, Victor returned to his own practice and lost himself in that until someone eventually called his name.

"Vitya!" There was no mistaking which one of them was meant by that this time; that was the younger Victor's voice, and Victor looked up to see him waving from behind the boards. He skated over. "I'm going to Yakov and Lilia's place for dinner."

"Okay." Victor expected him to say that he was staying over – he did that some evenings. Victor always took the excuse to steal Makkachin and the younger Victor's bed for the night.

"They said that you're invited, too," the younger Victor said, giving him a hopeful look.

"Oh," said Victor. That was new. "Okay. Let me just cool down."

They stopped by their apartment to collect Makkachin, first. It was still a little strange to be around Lilia, and even to some extent Yakov. So far he'd only had a few brief conversations with Lilia, the first for him since their divorce, and he didn't know how Yakov was treating him differently now that he was a student-coach instead of a student, but he was. Victor thought about telling them about their separation, sometimes, but he didn't know if it would help anything.

But the food was good, and Yakov and Lilia treated him with the same hospitality they had always shown him, though without as much of the nagging. Victor found himself sitting and chatting with them as easily as ever after dinner, sipping on wine and watching the bored younger Victor play with Makkachin instead. He laughed and laughed when she tackled him to the rug and sat on him; it was most adorable thing Victor had seen in ages.

"That was nice," the younger Victor said on the walk home. "You should come over more. They like you, you know. Maybe more than they like me!"

"What? Of course not! You're too cute, I can't compete with you."

"But you're _responsible_ and _mature_. Or at least better at pretending." They shared a smile. "I think they're happy that you're living with me now. Like, it was fine when I was on my own, but it's nice to have someone else to help look out for me. I like it too. Having someone to cook with me and to go running with me and to hang out with me at night and to take Makkachin from me – wait...."

Victor chuckled. "You make me sound like your live-in boyfriend or something," he teased, and he was pleased to see the younger Victor go ever so slightly pink. "Is that what you want me to be? Or more like your older brother, right?"

The younger Victor shook his head vigorously, and Victor had to dodge his ponytail. "I don't need a _brother_ ," he huffed. "That's stupid. You're just me. Other me. I like myself so I like having more of me around."

Victor laughed again and put an arm around the younger Victor's shoulders. "Is that what you tell reporters? I think you're going to have to simplify it."

"They're so annoying! They don't seem to get it at all. I don't care if you end up skating again and you're my ultimate rival or you stay my coach or whatever. You're not suddenly my father or anything. You're another me and that's it." He blew some of his hair out of his eyes. "Another me who has short hair and probably has better-than-average knowledge of what to invest my Olympics money in."

Victor looked down at him. He sounded so free of expectation. Just him, except older and more successful, hm?

The younger Victor leaned into him and sighed as they waited at the last crosswalk, Makkachin sitting at their feet and waiting, too. "Tired?"

"A little. I don't know why, the workouts weren't that bad today... at least there's no school tomorrow. Makkachin, we can sleep as much as we want!"

The light changed, and Makkachin started to cross without them. The younger Victor broke away to catch up with her. Victor let himself lag behind, watching them, the younger Victor chastising Makkachin and Makkachin happily trotting on. The younger Victor waited for him to catch up on the sidewalk, anyway, and they walked home side-by-side.

The next morning, it was the kind of day that deserved a sleepy start. Rest day for the younger Victor, a weekend for both of them. The perfect time to sleep in before going for a half-hearted jog and having an indulgent breakfast.

Victor, this time alone on the couch, drifted in and out of sleep for a while, watching the sunlight shift across the room whenever he blinked his eyes open. Finally, though, he was undeniably awake, and there was only so long he could simply lay on the couch, even if he had no desire to move off of it at the moment.

And he didn't have his phone. But there were other ways to keep himself occupied.

He curled further beneath the blanket and let his free hand roam, idly touching the skin of his chest, his hip, his neck. He didn't have anything particular in mind, but this morning he'd had a pleasant dream, vague and faceless, someone touching him softly and smiling at him as they made love sweet and slow. It was easy enough to conjure the images again, still vague, still sweet, and then to move his hand down.

The first few touches had him turning his face into the blanket to muffle the gasps that wanted to escape. Each stroke of his hand was like sparks, and then he found a rhythm and oh, that was good. Wrapped in the blanket, warm, hips and hand moving in time with each other, it was nice. Not as good as a real lover, but better than a quick session in a morning shower.

It hadn't felt like he'd had a chance to enjoy himself sometimes, lately. Stupid. He'd spent all this time on his body, he might as well take pleasure in it, even if by himself. He'd just always been so tired after long hours of practice....

Victor had to poke his head out of the blanket when it got too hot, but he kept his eyes closed, kept his body moving, one hand curled in the fabric wrapped around him. A little moan made its way out. Pleasure was starting to build in his belly – not too much, yet, but it was there, making his toes curl.

He wouldn't have opened his eyes, too focused on how his hand felt moving over his cock, except he heard the tiniest little noise. Not his own breath, or the rustle of the blanket, or the sound of his hand on his skin.

When he looked up, the younger Victor was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, a hand pressed to his mouth.

Victor paused, expecting for him to apologize or something, or at least to go away, but maybe there was a deer-in-headlights effect, because he didn't move, just stared. "Sorry," Victor eventually said, not because he was apologetic but hoping that it would snap him out of it. It didn't. Annoyed and slightly confused, Victor pushed himself up on one arm. "What, did you want lessons in this, too?"

The younger Victor did react to that, his eyes going to Victor's. He shook his head, tiny little jerks. His hand was still on his mouth, and he pulled it away in a stiff movement. He opened his mouth, like he was going to apologize, then closed it.

And then he took three steps across the room and dropped himself on Victor.

"Let me," he whispered, quiet, pleading, plucking at the blanket.

"What?"

The younger Victor shook his head. "Let me, please, I—"

Victor had to grab his hands to keep him from pulling the blanket down. He didn't know what to do with him for a moment, not with the younger Victor sitting in his lap and looking at him like that, his cheeks gone red. "What are you doing?"

"Don't you want me to?" The confusion and shock must have been evident on his face, because the younger Victor continued, breathless. "I've _seen_ the way you look at me – you're always looking at me – and you touch me a lot and yesterday you were saying – and _I_ like you, so shouldn't you?"

Victor took a moment to process. The words he'd said the day before, and – okay, so he did stare at the younger Victor a lot, because he was pretty and because it was strange to see himself and because he itched to correct all the flaws in his skating. And why shouldn't he touch his younger self, to correct his form or just because they were close or....

Well, the younger Victor was starting to make more sense now. And he was good-looking and, hell, Victor had jerked off in front of a mirror before, he was vain enough. Maybe it would be even more fun with an actual other self of his touching him, not just a reflection that copied him. Masturbation with two of him. Huh.

"You surprised me," he said, letting go of the younger Victor's hands. "You didn't even kiss me first."

"I like surprises."

"I do," he said, and he put his hands up on the younger Victor's shoulders. Strange, but why not? "Okay."

The younger Victor tugged the blanket aside. He'd calmed down in the past few moments, but Victor could see him swallow as he looked down and reached for him.

There was nothing hesitant about how the younger Victor touched him. Oh, that was – the younger Victor's hand didn't have the same smoothness or the same rhythm of his own, but it wasn't his. How long since he'd had someone else in his bed? And the younger Victor might not have been very experienced, and trembling with excitement, and god it was weird to be staring up at his own face during this, those big blue eyes and his hair uncombed, but—

Victor's hands found his waist and pulled him closer. Let the younger Victor touch him, held him. He said, "Yes," and, "Faster," and, "Like that," and other encouraging things, and watched the younger Victor's face. It reddened further and further, his breath picking up almost as much as Victor's. He didn't break eye contact.

The younger Victor didn't have any finesse when it came to this, but it was good enough. Victor told him how good it felt and then stopped trying to put it into words. He let it come out as gasps and little moans, drove his cock into the younger Victor's grip and watched him. Watched his mouth drop open, his pink tongue tempting if Victor had felt like leaning up for a kiss, and watched his eyes go wider and wider. This wasn't like the mirror at all, any more than watching him skate was.

It was weirdly hot, though. Even with the slight clumsiness to his movements, the younger Victor knew how to get himself off, and he kept up an enthusiastic rhythm until Victor was pushed over the edge.

He let his head loll against the couch for long moments, clinging to the pleasure until it ebbed. When he forced his eyes open again, the younger Victor was still breathing hard. He looked desperate to get some touch for himself, too, trying to rut against Victor's thigh even though he was at the wrong angle for it to be any good.

Poor thing. He'd been patient, focused on Victor. Victor rolled them over so they were laying next to each other. "That was wonderful," he murmured, before he kissed the younger Victor's cheek and reached beneath his leggings. The younger Victor gasped as Victor drew his hand teasingly close and tried to buck up into his hand. Victor shifted his fingers away, but only for a moment, before he pushed his hand further down and stroked him.

He let out a high-pitched moan at that first touch. Victor hadn't known his vocal cords could still make noises like that. "Ah," went the younger Victor, putting a hand to his throat and wincing.

Victor laughed. "It's okay," he said. He twisted his hand on the next stroke and the younger Victor moaned again, this time at a lower pitch.

The younger Victor fisted his hands in Victor's shirt and pulled him closer. Victor had the advantage of knowing all the ways he liked to be touched, so he put that knowledge to good use. He ran his free hand down the younger Victor's side, avoided the ticklish spots on his side but not the good ones, and when the younger Victor was wriggling and panting against him, he tipped his head up and kissed him.

Kissing was always fun. The younger Victor clearly had no idea what he was doing when it came to this, either, but he leaned into every open-mouthed kiss, then leaned in for more when Victor broke away for too long. He looked good like this, begging for kisses, lips parted so he could take in fast breaths. Good and like he was enjoying himself.

Victor watched him, this pretty younger self of his, brought him pleasure and watched his face as he came, arching into Victor.

"Wow," said the younger Victor, when he'd gotten his voice back.

"I didn't know I could surprise myself like that," said Victor, and then, "Wow."

The younger Victor grinned at him. "If I can surprise you, I think I can surprise anyone," he said, and when the smile faded and something more vulnerable flitted across his face, Victor tucked him against him and held him as the sun crept further across the wall.

Victor hadn't been seventeen in quite a while, but he still remembered what he'd been like – fond of romance, in love with the idea of love, but a late bloomer when it came to actual sex and even kissing. He'd been busy, and too many of his crushes were out of his reach anyway – they lived far away, they were too old for him, they didn't like him back, they seemed nice and handsome from afar but were boring when he got to know them.

He'd accidentally managed to solve that particular problem, it seemed. And the younger Victor had dived right in, hadn't he?

Victor stroked his back, smoothed his hair down, ran a thumb along his jaw when the younger Victor looked up at him. The vulnerability was still there, maybe a touch of hesitation even though they'd already done it. They had gone kind of fast. "It's okay," he said, before leaning down to kiss his temple.

"I'm okay. It was just a lot."

"I know." He resettled on the cushion. "Although I didn't realize I was already so lonely at your age that I'd be desperate enough to sleep with myself."

He meant it half as a joke. He realized it was the wrong thing to say two seconds after he said it.

Not soon enough to take it back before the younger Victor bolted up. "Desperate? Why would you – I don't like you just because I don't have anyone else to like!"

Victor sat up, too, holding up his hands in a placating gesture that utterly failed to placate. "Vitya—"

Oh, great, now tears were welling up in his eyes. "That was my _first time_. You know that, don't you, you can remember. Why would you say something so mean? I thought you liked me! Why - why would you?"

How did he stop the crying? Hug him? Kiss him? Say something gentle and soothing and wipe the tears lovingly away?

A moment of hesitation was too much. The younger Victor's face crumpled, and he climbed over Victor and fled the room. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.

Victor ran his hands over his face and let out a long breath. He didn't miss his teenage dramatics. The younger Victor probably wasn't even crying in the bathroom or wherever he'd locked himself into. More likely sniffling a little and sulking, waiting for Victor to come and coax him out and soothe his hurt feelings. If he was really, deeply hurt, he wouldn't have run off.

Well, he wasn't going to outgrow the fits if Victor indulged him. Victor could wait. The younger Victor would come out eventually, and then Victor could... do something to fix it. Apologize. Hug him? Hugging seemed like a good first step.

Makkachin poked her head in, whining. "I know," he said, sighing again. He shouldn't have said that out loud, just because he'd realized right then that maybe his listlessness and boredom problem went back further than he'd thought.

Victor rose and made two cups of tea, both just as sweet as he liked, then a simple breakfast. He waited, sipping his tea, until the cup was empty and the hour was getting worryingly close to when they were supposed to leave for practice.

He texted Yakov, claiming that the younger Victor wasn't feeling well and that they might be late getting to the rink.

There was no way he was going to hear the latch unclicking down here in the kitchen, but Makkachin did; she perked up and left the room. So Victor reheated the other cup of tea and picked up one of the small bowls of yogurt, then went to wait for the younger Victor by the doorway.

The younger Victor was bent over Makkachin, reassuring her that he was fine. When he stood up and saw Victor, he frowned more deeply than he was already, but he came over. Victor held out the tea and yogurt; when the younger Victor took them, he said, "Sorry," and leaned over to press his lips to his hair.

"Sorry," the younger Victor said. His eyes were a little red after all. Not enough to be the result of a real crying fit, but....

Victor wrapped an arm around him and led him into the kitchen. "I didn't mean it like that. It wasn't supposed to be cruel. I do like you."

"How else could you mean it?"

"It was a bad joke – I know I wasn't that desperate when I was your age."

The younger Victor gave him an unimpressed look. At least he sat down and took a few spoonfuls of his breakfast. "Then why did you say it?"

Victor shrugged as he sat next to him. "I never got any better at not letting things slip out. Yakov still has to tell me off when I accidentally upset the novices because apparently I made them think they're no good."

The younger Victor seemed to think about that for a minute as he stirred his yogurt and had some of his tea. "Okay," he said. "I do say things I shouldn't sometimes. It was still mean."

"I know." He kissed the younger Victor's hair again, rubbed the back of his neck – the younger Victor relaxed slightly into the touch. "I can make it up to you."

The younger Victor didn't look at him, though. Didn't shrug him off either, at least. "I was thinking, though. I don't get why you said _already_ lonely. I'm not lonely. I have friends."

"I said something stupid," said Victor, because he didn't really want to talk about it. The younger Victor didn't need to know about such depressing things, at least not yet. Couldn't they just kiss and make up?

"You always seem happy," the younger Victor said, as though Victor hadn't spoken. "I mean, you make nice food, you get to spend most of the day with Makkachin, you don't have to work out as much as I do, I know you get along with people at the rink, you don't even act upset that you can't compete anymore all of a sudden because you like coaching me – aren't you happy?" He glanced up at Victor. "You can say if you aren't. If you can't tell me, I don't know who you can tell."

"Okay, okay." Ugh. Well, maybe he had a point about that. He tugged the younger Victor over so he could lay the side of his head on top of the younger Victor's. "Are you sure you want future spoilers?"

"You don't need to tell me what I'm going to win. But you should say when bad things are supposed to happen so we can make them not happen," said the younger Victor. "Why were you lonely?"

"When was the last time you had a friend over? Or went out with one?"

"Huh? Um... well, but I'm busy. But I talk to my friends at school, and I have Lilia and Yakov, and I guess I don't really invite my rink mates over but we're friends."

"After I graduated," said Victor, "I lost touch with the friends from school. You're right, I was busy, and none of them were good enough to keep skating for long afterward. So much attention from being the gold medalist, and you like having adults fawn over how much potential you have but you have to practice hard because you know how far you still have to go. And then I made friends in university classes, but lost touch with them when we weren't in class together anymore. And then I wasn't in university. I made a good friend in skating – you'll meet him soon, I think – but he doesn't live in Russia. And Yakov is busy, and your rink mates are busy, too, and finding a romance or even time for a romance is difficult, and...." And there was the constant rhythm of practice and competition, familiar but unceasing, gold gold gold until even Chris couldn't keep up.

"Oh," said the younger Victor. "I guess you didn't have an older you to keep you company."

"Nope."

"Did you ask Yakov how he did it?" Victor pulled away and shook his head. "I mean, he met Lilia and they got married when she was still a prima and he was still a skater. They both must've been super busy, but they did it somehow."

No, he hadn't thought of that. Probably wouldn't have asked even if he had. Too used to being independent; he didn't want to keep running back to his coach for every problem at twenty-six when he should be able to solve them on his own.

The younger Victor made a comment about him getting dull in his old age, and Victor fired back with one about his youth, and with the air between them easier again, they had breakfast. When they were finished, dishes piled in the sink to deal with later, Victor said again, "Let me make it up to you." He could remember all his youthful fantasies about romance; it would be fun to indulge the younger Victor in some of them, and he was sure that it would clear out the remaining awkwardness between them.

"Yakov's already going to kill me for being so late," the younger Victor said, looking at his phone. "Is he okay? Usually he'd already be blowing up my phone asking where I was."

"I told him you weren't feeling well and you'd probably come in later. Come on. You can make up a story to blame it on me, if you want." He slid his arms around the younger Victor and bent his head to whisper in his ear. "You wanted your first time to be special, right? I know _exactly_ how to spoil you. All the things you want someone to do to you."

The younger Victor shivered. He looked at his phone again, then set it down. He let Victor take him to his bed.

They did it slower, this time. Victor held the younger Victor close and murmured nice things in his ear. Stroked his hair, kissed his cheekbones and his ears, pressed softer ones down his jaw and neck and collarbones. The younger Victor flushed a deep pink, and he started making lovely little noises around the time Victor caught his flailing hand and put his mouth to his wrist, before lacing their fingers together.

He wriggled a lot when Victor took his time working his way down his chest and hips. Victor had forgotten how ticklish he'd been, then, and he smiled at how the younger Victor squirmed when he put his hand on his waist. He smiled wider at how much more vigorous the squirming got when he teased his hand lower, only just slipping his fingers under his waistband until he'd had enough of kissing the breath out of the younger Victor.

Afterward, the younger Victor was absolutely boneless. Victor didn't say anything stupid this time, or really much at all. It was always wonderful to have someone warm to cuddle with, and the younger Victor was still and just the right size to hold. He started to fall asleep like that, chin on the younger Victor's head, breathing in the scent of his old favorite shampoo, minty and cool.

"We should go to practice," the younger Victor eventually said, and he was the one who dragged himself up and then dragged Victor out of bed.

"Was that better?"

The younger Victor answered him a smile, one that reached all the way to his eyes and to the corners of his cheeks. Dazzling. Victor reached out to poke his face, and they both laughed.

At the rink, Yakov seemed relieved to see that the younger Victor had shown up, and in his usual health and cheer. They'd just made the ice session; the younger Victor raced to warm up and throw his skates on, while Victor took his time, though he was amused at the younger Victor's energy. He could remember showing up early at the rink as a child – before he'd started training with Yakov – so he could step on the ice as soon as it was ready.

Yakov came over to talk to him just after he'd taken his first few strokes around the rink. "What's this about you feeding him spoiled milk in porridge?" he asked, matching Victor's slow strokes.

Oh, so was that what he'd come up with as their excuse? "I didn't think to check the expiration date," he said. "You know me, Yakov, I forget things. Anyway, you can't be too mad. I coddled him until he felt better, and look, good as new."

They both turned in time to see the younger Victor throw himself into a single axel, easing out of it before turning to set up another warm-up jump. "Hmph," said Yakov, but it wasn't angry, and let it drop. Kept pacing Victor, though. After a few moments, he asked, "You said you choreographed those programs you showed me by yourself?"

"Yep, all me."

"One of the other coaches has a junior girl in sudden need of a new choreographer, if you're interested."

"Which one?"

Yakov pointed her out on the other side of the rink. A little tall for a skater, pretty enough. Victor went over to introduce himself. By the time he was finished chatting with her – just a couple of minutes, nothing excessive – the younger Victor was hovering.

And doing a terrible job at looking like he wasn’t. Had Victor always been so obvious when he was waiting for Yakov to finish with someone else? Those little side-long glances that screamed, ' _aren't you done yet?_ ', the way he kept doing steps in tiny circles like he was practicing something even though he was clearly killing time. Front swizzle, back swizzle, front swizzle, feet going in and out together.

"You need to bend your knees more," Victor helpfully informed him. The younger Victor did the next two with a nice, deep bend instead of being lazy. "There you go. Very pretty." He took the younger Victor's hands to lead him to an emptier corner of the rink, squeezing before he let go. The younger Victor gave him a pleased look and bumped against him. They couldn't be too overt (Yakov would _murder_ him if a strong enough rumor that they were sleeping together got out), but they could have some affection for each other.

The younger Victor did well today, everything strong and clean and deliberate. After their session, they broke apart for a while, and once Victor had enjoyed a long lunch break and had met with the girl who needed choreography, he was ready for some practice himself.

As people started to clear off the ice toward the end, Victor lingered to watch the younger Victor from the boards. He wasn't really practicing – he was playing, the way Victor hadn't in too long. Dancing for the sake of it to music in his head, his arms a lovely curve against the sunlight.

Victor called him over to get off the ice when Yakov had given him a few warning glances. He distracted him with, "We should do an ice show together next year. I know how to run one, and you have the popularity here. It would be fun."

The younger Victor lit up. "We could make programs for each other! And – oh my god, we should get Lilia to choreograph a pas de deux for us! That would be amazing. We could do the two swans from _Swan Lake_!"

"Or the king and the skater, the exiled prince and the lonesome elf, the time traveler and his younger self…." Funny. Early this summer, he'd been struggling to get his programs right and have the ideas work; now he was overflowing with ideas for the girl's program, and for something he could do with the younger Victor. And it wasn't like he hadn't done shows himself, so that couldn't be it.

The younger Victor had plenty of ideas, too, not just for programs, but for who to invite. Victor felt a little pang at the list of names he was coming up with. Lambiel still did shows, and of course they had to invite Georgi – skating fans absolutely adored Georgi's exhibition programs – but there were other names missing. For one thing, no Chris, who also always got the crowd going. Well, after the younger Victor met him next year, Victor could suggest him. It would be interesting seeing small Heidi Chris again.

Some people thought that the timeline Victor and the others had come from no longer existed. Victor liked to think it was just on pause instead. It was too sad to think of poor Makkachin wondering when he was coming home, of Yakov yelling at reporters who asked about him to cover up the fact that he was worried, of whether Chris's new gold medals meant anything without him there.

Mostly he tried not to think about it. Either someday he would go back and find out what was happening, or he would never know.

"I wish there was still time to do one this summer," the younger Victor sighed, wincing as he pulled his skates off and started to stretch his feet. "I really want to do it now. I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier, I'm even heading off for another show next week.... Maybe we could do something for one of my exhibitions. I wonder if we could lift each other?"

Victor stood from the bench and offered a hand. The younger Victor took it, then laughed as Victor grabbed his hips and tried. He managed, but the younger Victor's head barely cleared his own. "You're such a skinny little thing, and yet you're so heavy," he said. "Have you thought about not having so many muscles?"

"Let me try!" The younger Victor did even worse; Victor made it about five centimeters up before the younger Victor started to lose his balance and nearly tipped both of them back over the bench. "Oh, wow, the pair skaters and dancers make it look so easy. What else is hard, the synchronized spins and twizzles and jumps?"

"I think Yakov would be more relaxed about us practicing those than about the lifts." He imagined the two of them doing their quad flip together. The audience would go crazy for it.

That night, they both slept in the younger Victor's bed, the curtains drawn tight against the long daylight outside and Makkachin on their feet. It was the younger Victor's turn to tuck Victor under his chin and hold him, clinging with all four limbs. Victor kissed his throat and felt him shiver.

"You don't have to be lonely anymore," the younger Victor said to his hair. "You have Yakov and everyone, but most importantly, you have me now."

Victor snorted. "You do make for nice company," he said, brushing his fingers along the younger Victor's waist to get more of those shivers out of him. "I like it here," he added, just in case that wasn't clear. "I'm not unhappy."

"Good." He sighed. "I'm going to miss you next week."

"Whatever will I do without you, now that I've met you?"

"Do programs for half the juniors. That way you can pay me back for the skates and stuff. I bet everyone will want one once they see them." He yawned, and went quiet.

Victor was still thinking of another program, trying to choose a piece from _Swan Lake_ that wasn't the one he'd picked for his free skate this year. He didn't care if it was cliché for skating programs; he'd set out to put his own twist on it as a teenager, and now they could put another one on it together. As long as they could surprise an audience who already knew the music, it would be perfect.

He stroked the younger Victor's skin, not to tickle him, this time, but just to feel him, warm and real and as alive as Victor. It was strange, still, to be sleeping with himself. But here they were, and Victor was already looking forward to kissing him awake in the morning.


End file.
